


I have faced armies with you as my shield.

by meltokio



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Faithful Inquisitor, Five Times Kissed Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-30 00:17:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10865112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meltokio/pseuds/meltokio
Summary: Five Times Kissed for Cullen and Evelyn Trevelyan.





	I have faced armies with you as my shield.

The first is naught.

A breath and an ocean between them. Months of sidelong glances, hours of polite (stilted) conversation. She is light-headed, unarmed, wistful in wanting. In the distance between lips are her vows, oaths nigh broken if she allows herself this. In the gap is her pride and her shame — the small, childlike voice that tells her she should have practiced. _He will laugh he will turn away he will leave_. But the Maker intervenes, in the form of a hapless scout bearing reports. When the Commander moves she remembers to breathe again, places a hand to her temple to feel her pulse return to its normal cadence.

It is a sign. It is a mercy. Vulnerability abated, dishonor avoided.

They will never speak of this again.

The second is catharsis.

She has an excuse prepared when the space is gone. On her lips is everything she has denied herself. In her hair and under her skin and stealing her breath. Her heart is full to bursting and she smiles so hard that her cheeks hurt. He is as giddy as she—as unprincipled and eager—and it assuages any doubt. If her honor as a woman of the Chantry lay on the floor, she would sooner crush it beneath her heel.

She can’t remember a time prayer has ever made her feel on fire.

"Nice" is an understatement.

The third is devotion.

Why would it be anything less? The Herald is holiness personified. She speaks with the voice of the Maker and acts with the hand of his Bride. She is a holy vessel. She is sacred flesh. He is gentle and reverent. He holds tight and puts his hands where he can, a man made blind by looking too long at the sun. When they kiss, her own wantonness surprises her.

She can tell from her shadow—cast across his sculpted chest—that the moon is at her back, carding fingers of white light through her hair. His slack-jawed expression, brow furrowed above half-moon eyes, is evidence enough.

Who can say they have coupled with the divine?

Love set Andraste ablaze, too.

The fourth is solace.

Succor for the wounded, a kiss placed gently upon a sweat-slick brow. Lips that sung hymns into her skin bare hours ago are pulled taut. Grim fear grips him like a vice and suddenly she knows why there are shadows beneath his eyes. Her unmarked hand caresses a stubbled cheek until he awakens, confused then cognizant, then utterly serene.

He tells her he loves her, the truest prayer he’ll ever say, and she knows it is the only one that will ever satisfy her.

_In my arms lies eternity._

The fifth is triumph.

Celebration. Jubilation. In front of all and sundry she runs into his arms and he holds her as tight as the first night. Tears slip unbidden down ruddy and dust-caked cheeks but he kisses them away. They cannot stop smiling at one another; not when she addresses her people, not when he congratulates his soldiers, not when they meander the great hall during supper. Not when she takes his hand and brings him to her balcony.

The sun already spends rays against the snowcapped mountains, coating the early-morning mist in a blush of faintest pink.

_The deep dark before dawn's light seems eternal, but know that the sun always rises._


End file.
